


The Scent Of Your Skin

by Roxie Ann (pluvial_poetry)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Sensory Deprivation, sense of smell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluvial_poetry/pseuds/Roxie%20Ann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That's your big plan? Stick cotton up my nose and see how long it takes me to track you down and kill you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scent Of Your Skin

"Think of it as training," Stiles says. He's sitting in his desk chair, his foot tapping against the floor unrhythmically, a bestiary spread open on his lap. He's been wearing that same flannel shirt for three days, it's starting to stink. It should be disgusting, Derek thinks, and maybe it is. The worst part is that Derek's so used to it that he can't tell anymore.

"Training for what?" Derek asks, raising an eyebrow. "The next time the flu bug hits Beacon Hills?"

"You never know," Stiles argues. "Weirder things have happened around here than a little wolf flu."

Derek gives him a discouraging look as he turns his attention back to his own book. "I don't need training."

Stiles sighs loudly, and out of the corner of his eye Derek can't help but follow the curve of his mouth as it folds down. "You say that now, wolf man, but seriously, what would happen if you were incapacitated or whatever?"

"I don't get sick. And I don't rely on my sense of smell."

"Still waiting for you to prove it," Stiles challenges him. 

Derek glares back. It doesn't work as well as it used to, Stiles barely even wilts. "What do you want me to do?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Stiles says, digging through his desk, fumbling out a handful of cotton balls and a nose plug.

"That's your big plan? Stick cotton up my nose and see how long it takes me to track you down and kill you?" Derek asks, standing up and crossing the room to loom over Stiles' chair. Stiles manages to mostly control his flinch, but he does start to sweat a little, around his top lip and the dip of his collarbone.

Stiles clears his throat then, keeps his eyes lowered. "Basically. Minus the killing part."

"You better hope so," Derek says. "Give me the damn cotton balls."

Stiles hands them over, watching silently as Derek stuffs his nostrils and uses the orange plug to push them shut. "So now what? Should I run or--" Stiles gulps nervously, looking up at Derek, starting to fidget a little in his seat.

Derek rolls his eyes. "To prove that I don't need my sense of smell to hunt?" He looks down at Stiles consideringly. "I can't smell you but I know that you're aroused."

Stiles goes startlingly pink, his mouth falling open. "Wh-what the hell," Stiles stutters, trying to push his chair back, his desk getting in his way, "I don't -- I'm not--."

"Yeah, you are," Derek says and leans closer. "Your pupils are fat. I can hear your heartbeat picking up."

"Nerves," Stiles says, "because you're kind of an asshole." He's still kicking his heels futilely, trying to wheel his chair out of Derek's range.

Derek backs off slightly, looking down at Stiles one more time. "And your dick is hard."

Stiles closes his eyes, his mouth working silently for a minute. "It's not like I can help it," he says finally. He looks good like that. Flushed and wanting. And the sound of his heart pumping and his mouth watering is distracting, frankly. If Derek were to touch him, on his belly maybe, or one of his thighs, he'd be soft and hot-skinned. If Derek were to taste the crease on the side of his neck it would be salty on his tongue, still holding the tang of sweat. Most of all Derek wishes he could smell him, right now.

Derek waits until Stiles opens his eyes, and hesitantly looks back up at him again. "I don't want you to."

Later, after he's ditched the cotton balls, Derek's nose is buried in one of Stiles' armpits, Stiles twitching ridiculously as Derek breathes in; he's ticklish.

"What does it smell like, for you?" Stiles asks, slow and sleepy, his heartbeat steady next to Derek's ear.

Derek props himself up, thinking. It's a complicated question to answer. Stiles smells like every person he's come in contact with today; layers of soaps and detergents and toothpastes and perfumes. He smells like the town; the grass of the lacrosse field, the stale coffee from the sheriff's office. He smells like old sweat and new come. Derek takes another deep breath.

"Smells good."


End file.
